


The Measure of a Man

by merentha13



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-13 09:38:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/822813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merentha13/pseuds/merentha13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doyle confesses</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Measure of a Man

 

The door closed, shutting out the sounds unsettling his nerves – the squeaky wheels of a tea trolley, the beeping of monitors celebrating life, the urgent pages signalling a soul in danger, voices crying, others laughing, hurried footsteps – He wrapped himself gratefully in the silence of the dimly lit room. The only light came from flickering candle flames that cast long shadows on the floor and the walls. Drained, he collapsed on a bench.

A rhythmic tap- tap-tap of heels on the floor alerted him to another’s presence. He kept his head down; didn’t turn. The footsteps passed him, a Priest’s robes swirling softly around black shoes. Doyle experienced an unnerving stab of envy at the comfort the Priest seemed to find as the man knelt and bowed his head in prayer. 

The ragged breath that had threatened to choke him finally escaped Doyle’s wavering control. The strangled sound echoed through the hospital chapel, giving life to the grief and worry that had, until this moment, been denied its rightful place. The priest crossed himself then rose to face Doyle. He took a seat next to him.

“Can I help?” He asked softly.

“I gave up looking for help from religion years ago, Father,” Doyle whispered.

“And yet here you are.” There was no censure in the voice.

Doyle shrugged.

“You came in the ambulance. You're with the police.” Not a question.

Doyle looked down at his bloodstained clothes and the dried blood on his hands. Bodie’s blood. He tried to wipe it off on his jeans.

“The man they rushed in?”

“My partner.”

“I see.” Understanding shone in the Priest’s eyes.

When Doyle didn’t speak, he offered, “It might help to talk about it. I’m I good listener.”

“Have to be in your line of work, yeah?” Doyle tipped his head, trying for levity.

“Yours too, I would guess.”

Doyle nodded absently. Head bowed, he took a deep breath and spoke. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

Where the fuck did those words come from? He raised his head and looked into eyes that seemed to see right to the heart of him; eyes that saw the weariness, the sadness, the fear.

“Would you have me hear your confession?”

And Doyle was right back in Derby, at St. Mary’s - scared of the power this one man could wield over his soul; scared of the violence inside himself that not even the prayers of his fervently devout Catholic mother could curb. He was back where he’d been shown his future if his path didn’t change – and it hadn’t. And here he was – all the fires of hell waiting for him – he’d killed a man – taken a life.

“I killed a man.” The words blunt and ugly.

“Not an unexpected event, I’d guess, in your line of work.”

Doyle looked at him, eyes wide.

“I’d not… this was the first… I’ve never killed anyone before.” His meekness in front of this man angered him. He tensed, hands clenched into fists. His voice hardened. “Was his own fault, the bastard. I told him to drop his weapon. He was surrounded. There was no where for him to go. I told him what would happen. He had every chance to-” His throat closed and he saw the scene again – Bodie kneeling before Connor, unarmed, Connor’s gun at his head. Connor laughing at his helplessness to save his partner. Connor’s finger tightening on the trigger. He had shouted then, “Bodie!” and fired his own weapon. Bodie had moved with the signal, but not fast enough. Connor’s bullet had taken Bodie where the shoulder joined the neck. And Connor had died immediately with a bullet in the middle of his forehead. 

When the Priest’s face changed, waiting, Doyle realised he had been talking out loud. 

“You took a life to save a life. An eye for an eye.”

“Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.”

“In a perfect world, maybe,” the Priest sighed. “This is something you’re going to have to work out for yourself. And if you can’t, maybe you should consider another line of work. But keep in mind; we need men to do the job you do, because it is not a perfect world.” Doyle started, a protest on his lips, but the Priest waved him off. “That you feel remorse separates you from the likes of the man you killed. I can’t know what God has in store for you. Forgive yourself, ask Him for forgiveness and I’m sure He’ll take care of you.” 

Doyle remained silent. 

The Priest prompted, “What happened to your friend?”

The words spilled painfully from his throat.

“I held him, held Bodie, waiting for the ambulance, both of us covered in his blood. To make it worse, he was conscious, knew what was happening to him. The prat was trying to comfort me. Me! He told me not to cry, to be strong, that he’d be all right if he knew that I was ok. I yelled at him, didn’t I? Blamed him – blamed him for taking a bullet that was meant for me. He tried to smile, then. Said it was my turn to be the strong one. But I don’t think I have the-”

The Priest gently grasped Doyle’s shoulder. Ignoring the trembling beneath his hand, the cleric said, “There’s no way to measure how much strength we have until we need it. We can only believe that there is enough inside us to get us through the bad times ahead.”

“But…”

“Your partner believed you have enough for both of you. Is he wrong?”

Doyle dropped his head into his hands and rubbed at burning eyes with shaking fingers. He took a deep breath and regained some semblance of control. He looked up at the Priest.

“No.” A wry smile quirked the corners of his mouth. “Bodie is never wrong. He’d tell you that himself.”

“Well, there you go then.”

Doyle smiled, then, feeling something in his chest loosen just a bit.

“Yeah.”

“Doyle!” The Scottish accent did nothing to soften the commanding tone. Cowley entered the chapel. “Where have you been, man?”

“Sir?”

“Your partner is asking after you.”

“Bodie?”

“You have another partner?”

Cowley took pity on the distraught man in front of him. He nodded at the Priest.

“Bodie will be fine, lad. The bullet removed a good wedge of skin and muscle, but didn’t penetrate far. A few stitches and he’ll be wanting to go home.”

“Thank you, sir. Father, I…”

“Go on then.”

Doyle hurried out of the chapel.

“A good man,” the Priest said as the door closed.

“Aye,” Cowley agreed, “beyond measure.”

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Tea & Swiss Roll Weekly Obbo # 188 Prompts: shoes, priest, picture prompt
> 
> Just borrowing the lads, no copyright infringement intended


End file.
